


The Process

by SlowBrass



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adelard Dekker Is A Sad Man, Adelard Dekker/OMC (Background), Case Fic, Character Study, Gay Male Character, Gen, Gen Work, Gertrude Robinson (mentioned), Pre-Canon, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowBrass/pseuds/SlowBrass
Summary: #DekkTheHalls2018 y'all.





	The Process

**Author's Note:**

> #DekkTheHalls2018 y'all.

People often told Adelard Dekker he had an intimidating gaze. Not threatening as such, but far too intense, too searching. He’d trained himself to soften it in his time in the priesthood, but here he felt it was an asset. 

Although, to her credit the woman placed here to watch him seemed largely unconcerned. She was large, a fair bit taller than Dekker and far more muscular, white, and had her brown hair tied back in a short ponytail. Likely armed with a knife at the very least. The room in which he sat wasn’t high-security, but he doubted it was a coincidence that Salesa’s waiting room was positioned at the back of his warehouse, with only one point of entry. Dekker glanced over at the fire extinguisher: probably his best chance in a fight, at least without using the box, but he doubted it would come to that.

He had no doubt Salesa’s muscle could likely kill him in a straight fight, but that would hardly be good for business, and he knew that would always be Salesa’s primary concern. The door through to Salesa’s office clicked open and he poked his head through, already grinning his easy, shallow grin.

“Adelard, nice to see you, come on in.” He held the door open as Dekker rose somewhat stiffly and stepped through, taking a seat in the small foreman’s office.  
Salesa sat down opposite, his body just a little bit too large to look comfortable on the cheap padded desk chair. Maybe the slight absurdity was meant to put visitors at ease, Dekker thought, but more likely he was just cheap.

“It’s been a while, Adelard, you been doing well?” Salesa spoke with an easy confidence, but Dekker felt certain neither of them gave a damn about the other.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. And business is what I am here for.”

Salesa nodded and gave another quick smile, evidently not too surprised by Dekker’s response. “Lovely as ever. So what is it you’re wanting? Folks are normally a little more upfront with details before meetings but…” He shrugged, leaving whatever degree of uncordial trust they might have unspoken.

“I believe the item I’m looking for is a table. Dark, varnished wood with a pattern on the top. Do you have it?” Dekker didn’t elaborate on its function.

“Rings a bell. Assume you already know what to use it for, eh Adelard?” Dekker thought he could detect a note of mockery. Dekker knew Salesa was proud of how he could stay above these things. Or maybe beneath them, but either way he had a remarkable talent for staying out of trouble. Dekker hated that he envied that.

“I know enough.” He hoped that was true. “So you have it then.” Salesa gave a tilted nod, as neutral as possible while still giving confirmation. “Right. Well I have something which I think you will want. Should be far easier to sell given the usual quality of your clientele.” He didn’t bother to keep the small note of disdain out of his voice, but he could see no sign that it offended Salesa.

Dekker opened the brown leather satchel slung over his shoulder and removed a smaller black bag. From that he drew out a small music box. The panels were carved from some kind of pale brown wood, and the edges were made of bright copper. On the wood panels were carvings showing a grand scene of hundreds of figures engaged in some kind of vast celebration, dancing and drinking and fornicating in outlandish and disturbing ways, reminiscent of a Bosch painting. Dekker flicked his eyes up to Salesa before he saw too much. He didn’t think the carvings were supernatural in themselves, but they had a disturbing sense of reality to them. He then reached into his pocket and placed a cassette tape next to it on the table.

“This should be safe so long as you don’t wind it, and even then I think it takes a short while for the effects to be… irreversible. I’ve also included a statement which should explain things in rather more detail.” Dekker was far from squeamish, but explaining the details of how he’d acquired the box was rather more than he wanted to share with Salesa. “Suffice to say I’m sure some of your clients would find it of interest.”

Salesa leaned forwards, his bushy eyebrows raising rather strikingly to regard Dekker with a look that was almost as searching as his own. “A statement?” For the first time in their meeting he seemed a little surprised. “How do I know you’re not trying to screw me over here?” He didn’t sound as suspicious as Dekker had feared he might be.

“You’ll see when you listen. I’m sure you know Gertrude wouldn’t risk losing access to your supplies just to trick you on my behalf.” Dekker said. “Besides, I should only need the table on a temporary basis. Although I can’t promise it’ll be quite the same afterwards.”

Salesa sighed slightly and gave a small smile, and this time Dekker could almost believe it was genuine. “Alright. How bout I give this this a look over, listen to your tape, and I’ll call you tomorrow, arrange a deal.” Dekker nodded.

As he walked past Salesa’s workers cataloguing assorted strange objects he felt a familiar sense of unease. Dekker found himself wondering how many of the crates he could see were their own horror stories waiting to happen. Their own statements, as Gertrude would probably see it. But Salesa didn’t care, and so long as Dekker needed him he couldn’t afford to either. He hurried away quickly, unable to consider it any more.

 

Dekker sat in his living room and regarded the table which now sat, evidently out of place, in front of the television. It’d have been nice if he had time to more safely test it, but that would be impossible now. He could not afford to wait any longer. Some part of him felt like that was weakness, like he ought to take more care here, but he knew waiting could destroy him. In more sense than one.

Dekker had grown very capable at ignoring his own doubts, too capable for his own good perhaps, but still he could feel a heavy knot of concern resting in his stomach and a buzzing foam of doubt clouding his mind. But he knew how to calm himself well enough, he had a process. Breathe deep, hold the body still - quiet down the body first. Then focus himself: set a goal, set the steps, enact them as best he could. Tricks he’d learned as a student, but his work now wasn’t all that different to surgery, as he saw it. Removing sickness and taint. It took him longer than usual, but eventually he found himself, found the solid core of lucid certainty which defined him. 

When he heard the click of the door he still felt more numb than calm, but it would be the best he could do here. Dekker made sure he was there to meet it in the corridor when he heard it coming, wouldn’t do to have it go into the living room too soon. It entered, slinging its backpack to the floor and undoing its coat, before looking up with just a hint of surprise at Dekker. 

“Have you been waiting for me?” its voice was soft, a hint of amused affection colouring it warmly. 

Dekker smiled and raised an amused eyebrow. It had been strange trying to catalogue all his affectations, his little signs of care and mock irritation and all the ways he expressed himself, so he could learn to fool the monster in his home. “Hardly, was just about to make tea and saw you coming in. You want some?” It would follow him into the kitchen, Andrew always watched him make tea, and it would do no different.

“Yeah, go on then, it’s bloody cold out there. You been out today?” It said as it began to follow him into the kitchen, kicking off its shoes messily. 

Did Andrew do that? What Gertrude had told him had been lacking in real detail, the crucial knowledge of the mechanics. Could every memory be new or would it co-opt that which he already had? The uncertainty, he supposed, was the point. Dekker gave a vague shrug. “Briefly.”

He cut off that thought. He was in the kitchen now, time to make tea. It calmed him, focused him. A clear process, with clear results. He finished stirring his tea and tapped the spoon on the rim three times. He hadn’t needed to ask how he liked it. He stopped himself, reminded himself that this was not a normal afternoon. It was not Andrew. 

“Adelard? Are you okay?” It asked, for all the world seeming genuinely concerned. For a moment Dekker wondered how if it felt anything, if maybe its impersonation went so far as mimicking emotion. 

The pulse of pain he felt then was all he deserved. He’d been weak, let himself get overwhelmed for a moment and interrupted the process. He’d had over a week since he’d gone to that awful office that felt both too cramped and too large to hear Gertrude confirm everything he’d feared. With over a week to prepare this kind of stumbling was unacceptable. Dekker gave a weary smile.

“Just a little tired, could certainly use some tea.” He said, pouring himself a cup and adding a small splash of milk. It still looked concerned, perhaps even suspicious, as it eyed him. 

“I’m fine, I promise.” He said, and as he did so he leaned up towards it, momentarily wondering if Andrew had been taller too, and planted a small kiss on its lips. It was unremarkable, he told himself, just a tiny brush of contact like any other, no more significant than a handshake. That mostly quieted the wave of revulsion.

It seemed to be contented however, giving him a small smile and picking up its cup. Dekker picked his up and walked through to the living room, following the thing which lived in his home. Soon, he told himself, it would be gone, this would be done, and he could deal with things normally. Soon he could move on.

It opened the door to the living room and stepped inside. He’d been lucky with the layout of the room, it would be a few paces inside before it saw the table. Time enough, if he did things right. He knew the words, he had his plan, he could do this. Dekker stepped inside after it. 

It took two steps and, with a sudden energy to his movements, Dekker threw scalding hot tea over its back. He couldn’t be sure if he imagined the pause before it cried out as slightly too long, if it was true pain or just a facsimile, he couldn’t be sure which he wanted to believe, but it didn’t really matter.

He didn’t wait before he began reading. He promised himself he wouldn’t make another mistake. The words were rhythmic, and Dekker could feel himself dropping into a strange, detached state as he read them, his voice coming out almost unconsciously.

“We snap and we twist and we bend and we break,”

The creature’s body began to change, its cry of human pain warping into something other-wordly and terrible.

“The body pulled forwards, the mind yours to take,”

The table pulsed with a strange, silvery light, threads of it crawling out and wrapping themselves around the creature’s rapidly elongating limbs. Another scream, this one more of rage than pain, as the creature was pulled closer and closer to the table.

“As the threads tighten the struggle shall ebb,”

His mind was cloudy, the words coming out as they wished, uncontrolled by his wishes, but he knew he was close, that it was almost over, and some part of him relaxed. What he could still register through his eyes was no longer the creature pretending to be his boyfriend, it was revealed, a twisted spindly mass of dark limbs and strange faces, its movements more sluggish by the moment. He felt almost calm. Then he made a mistake.

“When all becomes one with the weave of -”

He let himself calm down too much, focus too much on the creature in front of him, let himself hate it. And then he saw him. Andrew’s face, for a moment, came up from the morass of limbs and faces and the look it gave him was filled with such pain that it hit Dekker like a punch to the stomach. His voice halted, the words which would have completed the ritual pushed from his mind and replaced with a small choking sound. 

It was enough, the threads snapped with a sound so high as to be almost beyond hearing and the creature bounded for the window and crashed through it into the street beyond. Dekker was overcome with a wave of nausea and exhaustion, his body collapsing to the floor. Struggling, he drew his eyes up, past the now-still table, and over to the smashed window. The creature was gone, and he could see only the grey darkness of a cold winter’s afternoon. Adelard Dekker had failed.


End file.
